The Wild

I worry, at times, that Rapunzel exchanged one ivory tower for another; a tower with bigger windows and more staircases, but a tower nonetheless. I wonder, sometimes, how unhappy she really was, cast out into the wild, sheared and alone for the first time in her life. The blinded prince who left her with child follows the sound of her singing, discovering her hideaway, and I have to ask myself: how happy was she to see him?
She probably loved him, I tell myself; raising twins on one’s own is anything but easy. But I doubt very much if the Rapunzel he saw when her tears restored his sight was the same Rapunzel the prince had charmed in the tower.
Perhaps she liked being a wild thing. Perhaps the sound of the wolf at her door in the dead of night made her heart race with fear and something else besides. Perhaps bearing life out there in the woods made her realize her own power. Perhaps her hair grew back and she cut it again, with a flint she’d sharpened herself, slicing her dirty, pale hands under the shady trees. After all, she was named after a plant, a growing thing, and plants grow best where their roots can dig deep, away from others who would steal their sunlight.
Perhaps Rapunzel didn’t need any more rescuing. Perhaps the wild was all the refuge she ever needed